"Yes, I'm better. I'm well--only I can't seem to make people believe it.

And you-- I don't need to ask how you are. And so this big girl is the little Dorothy Elizabeth I used to know. You have your mother's eyes, my dear. Come, won't you shake hands with me?"

The little girl advanced slowly, her gaze searching the doctor's face.

Then, in her sweet, high-pitched treble, came the somewhat disconcerting question:--

"Is you--daddy?"

The doctor laughed lightly.

"No, my dear. I'm a poor unfortunate man who hasn't any little girl like you; but we'll hope, one of these days, you'll see--daddy." He turned to Helen Denby with suddenly grave, questioning eyes.

"Betty, dear,"--Mrs. Denby refused to meet the doctor's gaze,--"go carry the flower to Annie and ask her please to put it in water for you; then run out and play with Bessie in the garden. Mother wants to talk to Dr.

Gleason a few minutes." Then, to the doctor, she turned an agitated face. "Surely, didn't your sister--tell you? I'm going to London with Mrs. Reynolds."

"Yes, she told me. But perhaps I was hoping to persuade you--to do otherwise."

Her eyes grew troubled.

"But it's such a fine chance--"

"For more of this 'improvement' business, I suppose," cut in the doctor, a bit brusquely.

She turned reproachful eyes upon him.

"Oh, please, doctor, don't make fun of me like--"

"As if I'd make fun of you, child!" cut in the doctor, still more sharply.

"Oh, but I can't blame you, of course," she smiled wistfully; "and especially now that I see myself how absurd I was to think, for a minute, that I could make myself over into a--a--the sort of wife that Burke Denby would wish to have."

"Absurd that you could-- Come, come! _Now_ what nonsense are you talking?" snapped the doctor.

"But it isn't nonsense," objected Helen Denby earnestly. "Don't you suppose I know _now_? I used to think it was something you could learn as you would a poem, or that you could put on to you, as you would a new dress. But I know now it's something inside of you that has to grow and grow just as you grow; and I'm afraid all the putting on and learning in the world won't get _me_ there."

"Oh, come, come, Mrs. Denby!" expostulated the doctor, in obvious consternation.

"But it's so. Listen," she urged tremulously. "Now I--I just can't like the kind of music Burke does,--discords, and no tune, you know,--though I've tried and tried to. Day after day I've gone into the music-room and put in those records,--the cla.s.sics and the operatic ones that are the real thing, you know,--but I can't like them; and I still keep liking tunes and ragtime. And there are the books, too. I can't help liking jingles and stories that _tell_ something; and I don't like poetry--not real poetry like Browning and all the rest of them."

"Browning, indeed! As if that counted, child!"

"Oh, but it's other things--lots of them; vague, elusive things that I can't put my finger on. But I know them now, since I've been here with your sister and her friends. Why, sometimes it isn't anything more than the way a woman speaks, or the way she sits down and gets up, or even the way a bit of lace falls over her hand. But they all help. And they've helped me, too,--oh, so much. I'm so glad now of this chance to thank you. You don't know--you can't know, what it's been for me--to be here."

"But I thought you just said that you--you _couldn't_--that is, that you'd--er--given up," floundered the doctor miserably, as if groping for some sort of support on a topsy-turvy world.

"Given up? Perhaps I have--in a way--for myself. You see, I know now that you have to begin young. That's why I'm so happy about Betty. I don't mind about myself any more, if only I can make it all right for her. Dr. Gleason, I couldn't--I just _couldn't_ have her father ashamed of--Betty!"

"Ashamed of that child! Well, I should say not," bl.u.s.tered the doctor incoherently; "nor of you, either, you brave little woman. Why--"

"Betty _is_ a dear, isn't she?" interrupted the mother eagerly. "You _do_ think she'll--she'll be everything he could wish? I'm keeping him always before her--what he likes, how he'd want her to do, you know. And almost always I can make her mind now, with daddy's name, and--"

The doctor interrupted with a gesture of impatience.

"My dear lady, can't you see that now--right _now_ is just the time for you to go back to your husband?"

The eager, pleading, wistful-eyed little mother opposite became suddenly the dignified, stern-eyed woman.

"Has he said he wanted me, Dr. Gleason?"

"Why--er--y-yes; well, that is, he-- I know he has wanted to know where you were."

"Very likely; but that isn't wanting _me_. Dr. Gleason, don't you think I have any pride, any self-respect, even? My husband was ashamed of me.

He asked me to go away for a time. He wrote me with his own hand that he wanted a vacation from me. Do you think _now_, without a sign or a word from him, that I am going creeping back to him and ask him to take me back?"

"But he doesn't know where you are, to _give_ you a sign," argued the doctor.

"You've seen him, haven't you?"

"Why, y-yes--but not lately. But--I'm going to."

A startled look came into her eyes. The next minute she smiled sadly.

"Are you? Very well; we'll see--if he says anything. You won't tell him where I am, I know. I have your promise. But, Dr. Gleason,"--her voice grew very sweet and serious,--"I shall not be satisfied now with anything short of a happy married life. I know now what marriage is, where there is love, and trust in each other, and where they like to do and talk about the same things. I've seen your sister and her husband.

Unless I can _know_ that I'm going to bring that kind of happiness to Burke, I shall not consent to go back to him. I will give him his daughter. Some time, when she is old enough, I want him to see her. When I know that he is proud of my Betty, I may not--mind the rest so much, perhaps. But now--now--" With a choking little cry she turned and fled down the steps and out on to the garden path.

Baffled, irritated, yet frowningly admiring, the doctor stalked into the house.

In the hall he came face to face with his sister. She fluttered into instant anxiety.

"Why, Frank--_outdoors_? Who said you could do that?"

"I did. Oh, the doctor said so, too," he flung out hurriedly, answering the dawning disapproval in her eyes. "I'm going to Dalton next week."

"Oh, but, Frank--"

"Now, please don't argue. I'm going. If you and the doctor can get me well enough to go--all right. But I'm going whether I'm well enough or not."

"But, Frank, dear, you can't _do_ anything. You know you promised."

"Oh, I shan't break any promises, of course. But I'm going to see Burke.

I'm going to find out if he really is ninny enough to keep on holding off, at the end of a silly quarrel, the sweetest little wife a man ever had, and--"

"I opine you've seen Helen," smiled Edith Thayer, with a sudden twinkle.

"I have, and--doesn't like Browning, indeed! And can't help liking tunes! Oh, good Heavens, Edith, if Burke Denby doesn't-- Well, we'll see next week," he glowered, striding away, followed by the anxious but still twinkling eyes of his sister.

In accordance with his threat, and in spite of protests, the doctor went to Dalton the next week. But almost by return train he was back again, stern-lipped and somber-eyed.

"Why, Frank, so soon as this?" cried his sister. "Surely Burke Denby didn't--"